The Unbreakables
by HatakeKaede-san
Summary: There aren't many cases that can get through to our usually emotionally detached detective. But this particular case hits a bit too close to home for everyone involved.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: There aren't many cases that can get through to our usually emotionally detached detective. But this particular case hits a bit too close to home for everyone involved. Takes place after His Last Vow and after the Moriarty thing has been resolved.

Warnings: References to sexual abuse/violence against children and dead children.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**The Unbreakables**

After successfully avoiding most of Mrs. Hudson's fussing, to the elderly ladies' dismay, John ran up the stairs to 221B in a hurry. He could hear the sound of the violin coming from the room as well as the sound of a man's voice. Mycroft, he realised. From the sound of it there was nothing unusual about the situation at hand. Mycroft pressing on the younger Holmes brother while the latter completely ignored the other's presence. Or perhaps there was something different this time.

"Sherlock…," Mycroft started and John was surprised to note that there was a certain softness to his voice where he usually chose a much harsher and more condescending tone with his younger brother.

As John walked into the room, the sound of the violin stopped abruptly. There he found Sherlock standing uncomfortably close to Mycroft and there was an unusual shadow of genuine rage across his best friend's face.

"Get. Out. NOW," Sherlock hissed to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes sighed, nodded his head to John in greeting and left as if his younger brother had not just kicked him out of his flat. Sure, the two Holmes brothers were drama queens and often played up to it during their mutual conversations but this was different. This time around Sherlock wasn't being overly dramatic just for the sake of annoying his brother; whatever it was that Mycroft had told him seemed to genuinely upset him. John had only ever seen Sherlock react this aggressively to Mycroft on one occasion, when he was under the influence of drugs.

Sherlock returned to his violin, playing a few soothing noises. It was a melody John had never heard before, so he assumed that Sherlock had been composing. There was a certain kind of sad quality to the music and John took in his friend's appearance. Sherlock who had already dressed up into one of his trademark suits despite the early hours of the morning seemed unusually dishevelled and his potsure seemed to be incredibly tense.

"You alright, mate?" John finally asked.

Sherlock stopped playing for a while and looked up at John. John fiddled with his hands uncomfortably as he felt Sherlock scanning him from head to toes, cataloguing every bit of new information. By now he had probably figured out what John had had for breakfast, the fact that he had lost two pounds in the last few weeks and that he had had a rather heated argument with Mary this morning. Nothing serious, just John being overprotective and too worrying. At least that's what it was according to Mary.

"A tough case?" John asked a different question since he was unlikely to get an answer for the first one. He noticed the plate with the food on table that Mrs. Hudson must have had left at least several hours if not days ago by the state of it and which didn't even seem to be played with yet alone eaten. John had learned to identify what that meant in his time spent living with Sherlock. When Sherlock wasn't on a case he'd at least play with his food out of boredom even if quite often he would fail at eating much of it. Completely untouched food meant a case and combined with the dark lines under Sherlock's eyes that implied sleep deprivation it was probably a tough one.

Sherlock ignored John's question once again, instead opting for posing one of his own: "So how is Mrs. Watson today?"

"She's good," John answered trying to ignore the way Sherlock's eyes pierced into his, telling him that he knew very well what went on in the Watson's household today. Jesus, and Mary thought that John was the overprotective one. John had nothing on Sherlock when it came to ensuring the harmony of the Watson's marriage and their safety. John thought it better not to look into the implications that this fact meant for his relationship either with Mary or Sherlock. He could tell that Sherlock was trying to change the topic and to distract John from dwelling on the subject of his case too much. The thing John couldn't understand was why. Sherlock rarely could stop himself from sharing his thoughts on a case with John and he had requested that John come help on this one after all.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" there was a hint of annoyance in John's voice. If all Sherlock had brought him here for was to talk about John and Mary's marriage, which to be fair would not have been the most ridiculous reason for which Sherlock had ever called him to come, he would have preferred to go to work instead.

„Any moment now," Sherlock said watching his phone intently. The first tone of the ringing didn't even finish before he answered it.

„How old?" Sherlock asked before the party at the other hand of the conversation, Lestrade John assumed, had a chance to speak.

John would swear that he could see Sherlock's face turn into an expression of disgust but before he could address this, Sherlock's usual mask was back in place. However the glee that usually seemed to accompany the news of yet another corpse found seemed to be missing this time around.

"We'll be there in 15 minutes, make sure the morons don't compromise the crime scene, Gordon."

John rolled his eyes as he muttered „it's Greg" under his breath, he knew that it was pointless to remind Sherlock of this fact. A part of him almost believed that his best friend knew the first name of the DI very well but he just secretly enjoyed trolling Lestrade. Sherlock didn't even give Greg the chance to protest against Sherlock's most recent invention of his first name before ending the call.

„Let's go, John."

„Go where exactly?" John asked once they were on the street.

„You'll see. The game is on, " Sherlock half smiled as he waved for a taxi. John wasn't probably the most observant person out there, at least according to Sherlock's standards and considering that he had married a former assassin without ever noticing, this assertion probably wasn't that far from the truth. However one thing he could always tell that he had learned thanks to the prolonged exposure to the detective was when Sherlock was faking emotions. And that smile certainly was a fake one. For some reason, this particular mystery didn't seem to wake the kind of thrill for the chase in Sherlock as most others did. The first plausible explanation that occurred to John was that the case was simply too boring. But if that were the reason, Sherlock would have either abandoned Scotland Yard to their own means or solved the case in minutes in order to boast about it and to ridicule the Scotland Yarders. It was all very curious as John put two and two together and realised that Mycroft had likely insisted on Sherlock dropping this case during his little visit. Was it something like Magnussen once again, a case where Sherlock was punching above his own weight? But surely if Sherlock was still working on the case out of malice to his brother, he would definitely show much more glee at this fact. No, it seemed to be a completely different force that was driving Sherlock into this particular case. This seemed to be something that was much more personal and hit too close to home for his usually emotionally detached friend. John gulped as he wondered what it possibly could be that could have such an effect on Sherlock Holmes. He was bound to find out very soon and he was quite sure that he wouldn't like the revelations and implications of this case one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock.

**A/N: **Thank you for reading/reviewing/favouriting/alerting.

**Chapter II**

When they arrived at the crime scene, which was situated at a boy's public school, nowhere, middle of, John nodded his head in greeting to Donovan and stopped to chat for a bit with Lestrade. Sherlock of course didn't bother with such petty things and proceeded directly to the murder scene. When John joined him a few minutes later, he was glad for his short interaction with the DI as he had time to brace himself for what he was about to see. Child victims were always especially hard to bear, but with the prospect of parenthood looming over him John found himself caring even more. Sherlock meanwhile was scanning the body of the young boy looking for every detail, every little bit of information, seemingly unfazed by the nature of the victim and the degree of brutality that it presented to most people.

John kneeled down next to the body, examining it for causes of death and other injuries: „Case of death, probably asphyxiation...there's some recent bruising on the left hand...also some older bruising on other parts of the body...," John's eyes met with Sherlock's for an instant and he could almost see the wheels start turning and racing in his best friend's mind. Without a word Sherlock turned on his feet and walked away as there was nothing more to learn for them from the crime scene after all, so John hurried after him. Once he caught up to him, he noticed that the detective was dialling a number on his phone, which was highly unusual for his eccentric friend who as he put it himself once usually preferred to text. John wondered what matter it could be that was so important that required him to indulge in a conversation where words were actually exchanged out loud and even more so he wondered who the person at the receiving end was.

"Molly," Sherlock addressed her, his voice void of emotion. "There's been another one. Let me know as soon as you find out whether there's any evidence of sexual assault."

As comprehension dawned on John, he didn't even ponder the fact that Sherlock actually ended a conversation with a 'thank you'.

„Jesus, Sherlock," he stuttered finally.

"Go home, John. I need to think, you're being extremely emotional, I hope I don't need to remind you how annoying that is." Sherlock addressed him, in his more usually rude tone.

John conceded to Sherlock and told the taxi driver to drop him at the hospital instead, he would currently be of no use to Sherlock and in a way he was secretly pleased with this turn of events as it would offer an opportunity to drown himself in work a bit and get the image of the dead body of the poor little boy out of his head.

* * *

><p>As Mary walked into the flat of 221B Baker Street she was greeted with the usual sight of chaos that the space occupied by Sherlock usually presented, enhanced even more by the fact that he was currently solving a case. She sighed as she manoeuvred her way through the mess to find Sherlock. It was her turn for baby-sitting duties as John found himself stormed by patients when Sherlock's call came. She wondered how they would cope with all of this once the baby came into the world and required constant presence of a baby-sitter as well, but decided to rather concentrate on the matter at hand.<p>

She found Sherlock in the living room looking at a series of photographs and info sheets regarding his case plastered all over the wall. He turned as he heard her approaching.

"Three pounds, " he commented.

"We've talked about this, Sherlock," she rolled her eyes.

As ever Sherlock ignored her.

"John's busy at the hospital," she started.

"No, he's not. He's clearly trying to avoid this case because it makes him feel uncomfortable and he has found a convenient excuse not to be here. What I don't understand is," he sat down on the couch putting his feet on the table and crossing his arms: „why would he send you?"

Mary was silent.

„He didn't send you," the detective half stated, half asked.

„Brilliant deduction," she answered dryly.

"So Mary, clever Mary, since you came here you might as well tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"There's something I'm missing. Something terribly obvious. Five boys between the age of 7 and 12 brutally assaulted and asphyxiated, different racial background, different social background, different schools, there's absolutely no connection. Or is there? Of course there is, there always is. So what am I missing, Mary?"

Mary ignored the condescending tone; this was the kind of game that he could maybe pull with John but not with her.

"Well, I'd say the answer to that is fairly obvious. Sleep is what you're missing judging by the state of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Nonsense. I don't need sleep, sleep slows me down," he said as he got up and tried to step through the table as he sometimes did, not finding the right balance and ending up colliding with the floor in a rather noisy fashion.

"Yeah, the great detective doesn't need sleep, I can see that now, " she commented as she helped him up.

* * *

><p>"Nothing serious, but this will probably leave a pretty nasty bruise for a few days, might want to lay off the violin for a few days," she commented as she pointed to his left wrist during her inspection for injuries.<p>

Sherlock looked at his wrist briefly and something seemed to click as she recognised the far away look in his eyes, he was lost in his mind palace as he finally connected the dots.

"I've been so stupid. Oh, it was in front of my eyes all this time, " he finally commented. "I have to tell Lestrade...," he slurred the words as he tried to get up but couldn't even find the right balance to stand on two feet.

"How long has it been since you actually slept?"

She could barely make out his answer but it sounded like don't know, can't remember or something along those lines.

"You should lie down, just for a bit," she commanded him. "Then I will personally drive you to Lestrade, okay?"

It seemed as if Sherlock was about to protest but there was no power left in him as his eyes slowly closed.

As she could hear her friend's silent snoring, she ventured to the kitchen as in not to disturb him. She thought about maybe fixing herself a cuppa but reconsidered this possibility when she found some experiment or another in the cabinet where she knew Sherlock usually kept his tea. Curiosity got the better of her as she opened the fridge. She had heard the tales about heads in the fridge too many times without actually seeing something. Disappointingly the fridge seemed to be only filled with a scarce amount of things that could mostly pass for food, albeit a considerate chunk of it probably had seen its best days some days if not weeks ago. Oh, well, maybe there might be some eyes in the microwave. She could swear she heard some mumbling coming from the living room, she never figured Sherlock would be one to talk in his sleep. Although considering how much he seemed to enjoy talking in certain situations, it wasn't all that surprising. Only when she heard a muffled cry did it dawn on her that Sherlock Holmes was most likely experiencing a nightmare. The demons that he could manage to hold at bay while awake, caught up with him while asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I am sorry, so sorry that it took so long to update. But at least I got to it eventually, haha.

Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in these past few months, so I still don't own Sherlock.

**Chapter III**

Mary made her way back to Sherlock as quickly as her current state of pregnancy would allow her. For a few seconds she regarded the sleeping detective, his long limbs entangled in the blanket, sweat dropping down his face as his unconscious self visibly struggled to deal with whatever horrors were hunting his dreams. She contemplated if she should even wake him as she was convinced that he would never want her to see him in this moment of vulnerability and quickly discarded that thought. To hell with Sherlock Holmes' pride, she could not bear to watch him suffer any longer. She tried shaking him awake gently. However the young detective barely shuddered. She made another, slightly more forcible attempt.

"Sherlock," she tried calling his name.

A combination of the shake and her voice finally seemed to do the job as the young man slowly opened his eyes. Yet his pupils still indicated a certain degree of confusion as he slowly started waking into the living world.

"Mother?" he acknowledged the presence of the other person in the room albeit he proved to mistake their identity at first glance.

"Not quite, Sherlock," drawled Mary.

As Sherlock registered her voice, comprehension downed on him. He made a feeble attempt at trying to put himself into a less vulnerable position.

"You were dreaming," Mary started. But although the detective seemed to be waiting for her to continue, she remained still.

"What, no interrogation?"Sherlock finally asked.

Mary shook her head as she sat down next to Sherlock. Fatigue slowly started catching up to her. Being a pregnant person turned out to be a piece of work and she could barely feel her legs.

Sherlock regarded her face before he commented: "Interesting."

"Oh, is it?" Mary smiled before continuing: "I'm not John, Sherlock. I'm not going to pry. If there was something you wanted to tell me, you would have done it by now."

"So no fussing then?"

"Is there a reason for me to fuss?"

"No."

But Mary could not help but notice that it took Sherlock an uncharacteristically long period of time to come up with this answer. It was almost as if he gave serious contemplation to her question. There seemed to be something that was bothering her usually detached friend. Well, she promised not to pry, but that couldn't stop her from offering an attentive ear eager to listen to her friend's troubles if he chose to share them himself.

"Sherlock," she started slowly: "I just… if there is something you'd like to get off your chest, I'm here, okay?"

"What? Yeah, sure. Whatever," was all that Mary got in answer. She was a bit taken aback as she was expecting to be answered with a retort along the lines of "Remember, no fussing."

But as Sherlock had jumped back onto his feet and was now once again deeply engaged with the facts of his current case, staring intently at the photographs and documents plastered all over the wall, she figured out that he had never even heard her offer.

"Oh, that's right, I promised I'd drive you to Lestrade."

"No," Sherlock answered resolutely.

"Why not? You were pretty insistent on getting to him when I first arrived?" Mary wondered.

"There's something I need to check first," Sherlock answered carefully.

The answer took Mary by surprise, in the period of time she had known Sherlock, she had never see him seem so unsure of himself as in this very moment. As he stood there with what could be explained as an expression of mild embarrassment on his face, despite his disheveled state that spoke volumes about how much he had devoted himself to the latest case, he looked extremely young and innocent in that moment. And in all the time she knew him, she had never seen him proclaim that he needed to make sure of something out loud. Sherlock Holmes found out if he was right first and only then came out with his theories. And in this case he had seemed determined to pursue one direction just a couple of hours ago, but now he was starting to doubt himself for some reason or another. This case seemed to be special in this regard. As Mary contemplated the somewhat strange behavior of her husband's best friend, Sherlock dialed a number on his phone.

Another strange moment, Mary pondered. Everybody in the whole of London knew that Sherlock preferred to text. If he chose to actually call someone, he must have regarded the matter to be of most import.

"Lestrade," Sherlock addressed the DI: "I need you to come to Baker Street. Now. Bring the medical records of all the victims with you. All the information you can find on this."

Sherlock listened to the party on the other end of the line for a moment. However he didn't answer Lestrade's question as he only remarked: "Look, Graham, just come here and I'll explain." and ended the call.

"His name is Greg, you know," Mary commented.

"What? Oh, why should I care what he calls himself these days. There's much more important information to be stored here," Sherlock touched his head inadvertently.

* * *

><p>It took Lestrade only about half an hour before he arrived at Baker Street with a bunch of files in his hands. He passed them to Sherlock before taking up on Mary's offer for some tea. They discussed some more or less important events over a cuppa in the kitchen as they tried to allow Sherlock to have his space undisturbed as he dug his way through the files the DI had brought him. Sherlock stood completely still with the exception of occasionally glancing up to compare the documents in his hands with some of the information plastered over the wall. Finally, after what seemed like long hours to Lestrade and Mary and mere minutes to Sherlock, he proclaimed somewhat triumphantly: "This has to be it."<p>

He was soon joined by Lestrade and Mary who were both eager to learn what the detective had uncovered.

"You know who it is?"the DI asked expectantly.

"No," Sherlock answered curtly. Mary noticed that he seemed even more unpleased with the fact that he had not yet managed to identify the perpetrator in this case and she wasn't quite sure that this was only due to the fact that it made him seem not invincible.

Sherlock put both of his hands together under his chin.

"But I did find the connection between the victims."

"Really? Do tell."Lestrade bided Sherlock to go on."

"At first glance they all seem to be unconnected. Different age, different race, different social background, different parts of the UK, different schools. There have however been two points where all of them seem to be connected."

"Wait, what do you mean all of UK? As far as we know, we have only had victims from England."

Sherlock gestured to one of the pictures on the wall, portraying a somewhat chubby boy of almost ten.

"Ian Gwain, murdered almost three years ago in a small public school near Cardiff."

"Three years ago? How do you know it was our killer?"

"Everything seems to fit his MO. And the boy fits the profile."

"What profile? You have only mentioned two common traits in all the victims."

"Yes, however if you combine victims with these two common traits and who were sexually abused before being asphyxiated the number of all possible suspects doesn't turn out that large. It's chance of probability that the person who murdered Ian Glain is also our killer."

"So you believe there might be even more victims?" Lestrade asked, all the colour draining from his face.

Sherlock nodded curtly.

"How many exactly are we talking about?"

"Hard to tell as we don't know if the time he is taking between victims in our case is the usual gap between murders or if the period has changed over time. We also don't know who and when his first victim was."

"How many do you believe we could be talking about, Sherlock?"

"Anywhere between ten and a few dozens. There might have been some early on who survived him. Chances are that our killer started as a child molester and only later proceeded to actually murder his victims," Sherlock noted.

The room stayed still for a moment before Mary finally broke the silence.

"So what is it that connects the victims?"she asked.

"For starters, they all seem to have exhibited an above average amount of intelligence although their academic records varied from Nathan Johnson who was at the top of his class to Ian Gwain who barely scraped through first grade. But the intelligence manifested differently in Gwain and two of the others. Gwain for example was known for slacking off school but in the time he missed there he was very inventive in terms of ways of finding livelihood for his family."

There was a note of admiration in Sherlock's voice as he spoke about Ian Gwain.

"So they were all geniuses?"

"Not necessarily. The average human's level of intelligence is so low that it doesn't exactly need genius to exceed it."

Lestrade decided to ignore Sherlock's insult and proceeded to ask: "And the second connection?"

"That's why I asked you to bring the medical records of all the victims. All of them, including Gwain according to the information I have been able get my hands on, sustained a high number of minor injuries over the span of several years. There's a certain rate of minor injuries that a person can fall victim to over the span of few years due to clumsiness, but the chance that all of them would have sustained as many injuries merely by chance seems unlikely."

"So, abused children, it is?"

"Not quite," Sherlock disregarded Lestrade's explanation: "None of the victims were exposed to violence or any other form of abuse from their parents or other close relatives. If anything the parents were extremely doting, the kind of parents who fully devoted themselves to their children and wrapped them in a protective bubble. Even Ian Gwain's financially bankrupt parents fit the bill on this point. So no, not abused."

"Oh," Mary exclaimed as the pieces slowly fit together in her head.

"Mary?"Sherlock invited her to speak as he gave her that special look that acknowledged that she was smarter than your average human.

"So we are talking about the kind of children who would find it hard to fit in with their peers due to their intellect and who would be easy prey for the other children as they all grew up being sheltered from the world. And one can imagine that such young boys who were frequently bullied by their fellow students would jump at the opportunity of finally having someone who was a fair partner for them on an intellectual level and who would offer them friendship. Even if such a person was merely a predator waiting for his prey."

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks you for reading/favouriting/alerting/reviewing/whatever this story.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock still continues **NOT** to belong to the things I own.

**Chapter IV**

John found Sherlock sitting cross legged on the floor of 221B Baker Street. His best friend didn't give any indication of noticing John's arrival as he was deeply engrossed in the activity in front of him. What he was doing was as bizarre as it could get with Sherlock Holmes. The genius detective didn't have his head burrowed in files connected to the latest string of murders or even in a book. No, the grown man was building rows of dominoes, one little tidy row after another. Practically the whole floor was littered with the small wooden pieces and John was relieved to find out that he managed to stop himself before he stepped on one of the pieces and ruined all of Sherlock's work. He'd be damned to know what the point of this particular activity was, but he was convinced that Sherlock wouldn't forgive him had he caused it all to fail to ruins before the deed was even finished.

"Umm...Sherlock?" John enquired.

"Not now, John. I'm thinking," Sherlock replied without sparing John even as much as a glance.

"Well, okay then," John nodded: "I guess I'll just go see how Mrs. Hudson is doing. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

No reply came from the other party in the conversation. Sherlock was way too preoccupied with measuring the distance between the individual pieces of dominoes.

"Some things never change," John whispered before descending the stairs from 221B.

* * *

><p>"Sit down, dear," Mrs. Hudson welcomed John with open arms as always: "How's dear Mary doing?"<p>

"She's well. Albeit a bit weared out and has to rest a lot. She's not taking that part all that well. She'd rather be running around than sit still, you know her."

"I can certainly imagine that it takes a lot of willpower on her part to stay at home rather than be active for once. Do you already know whether it's a boy or a girl?"

John shook his head. "We'd rather it be a surprise."

"Well, I'm sure Sherlock has figured it out by now, so you better hope he doesn't blurt it out or something."

Before John had a chance to reply, there was a loud ruckus from upstairs. By the sound of it the dominoes started falling down one after another as they should have, it was just that a certain someone seemed to have tumbled down to the floor among them as well.

"Again him with all the noises," Mrs. Hudson muttered, but despite the annoyance she failed to keep out the fondness out of her voice.

John stood up: "I better go check up on him. Genius detective dies after he fell on his head after a collision with dominoes would make for a terrible tabloid story, wouldn't it, Mrs. Hudson?"

* * *

><p>As John returned to the flat, Sherlock was struggling to stand up from the pile of dominoes. John made a quick scan for possible injuries, but it seemed that his best friend managed to escape this incident unscathed for the most part.<p>

He helped him get back on his feet. "You alright, mate?" John wondered.

"Isn't it strange how some lives fall apart like pieces of dominoes in the matter of just a few moments?" Sherlock mused with a somewhat distant look in his eyes.

"What?" asked John as confused as ever with the uncanny detective and his thought process.

"Nevermind," Sherlock discarded the topic quickly and put on his trademark coat. "We need to go, John."

"Go where?"

"St Lucas' public school for boys," Sherlock replied.

"Something new about the murders?" John asked. He had not talked to Sherlock about it since he abandoned him after seeing the last victim's murder scene, but from the little what he could gather from Mary and Lestrade, with whom he shared a pint just the night before, the investigation had hit a dead end. Even the famous detective seemed to be at his wits' end when it came to catching the killer this time. And by the state of him, John could tell that this situation was eating at Sherlock from the inside. So he decided to join him for the day's journey without any further comment.

At St Lucas' school Sherlock only made a short stop to talk to one of the students, inquiring about the whereabouts of one particular teacher before he headed straight to the gym. Apparently the person he wanted to talk to was one of the teachers of the late Anthony Bradley, the PE instructor Mr. Richards. Well at least John assumed that Sherlock wanted to talk to him. However he was proven wrong quickly. Sherlock had chosen a much more physical manner of handling the poor man.

He grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall, while still keeping his hold on the man, the smaller man's feet dangling a few inches above the floor.

"You will quit your job the first thing tomorrow and you will never show your ugly face in this or any other school again. Understood?"

John was taken aback. He had never seen Sherlock react in such a violent way before.

"Sherlock..." he started, but was soon interrupted by Sherlock's cold voice: "Stay out of this, John."

"What...what are you talking about?" Mr. Richards stuttered.

Sherlock pressed him against the wall even harder: "Oh, don't play stupid with me, Mr. Richard; you know exactly what I'm talking about. How many boys were there in this school? Or other schools? Ones you couldn't keep your filthy hands off."

The teacher paled visibly and gulped: "Just the one, I swear."

"How dumb must a person be, Mr. Richard in order to believe that they could lie to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Seven," Richards squeaked out finally. "Now will you let me go, please?"

"Certainly," Sherlock answered as he released his hold and the man's body fell down to the floor with a loud thud.

Sherlock turned on his heels and started walking away, John more confused than ever followed.

"Please...please...no police...I can't go to prison," Richards whined behind them.

Sherlock turned to him for one last time: "Oh no police, you can be assured of that Mr. Richards. I'd rather see you roam free in constant worry that you will be disposed off when you expect it the least, facing the kind of excruciating pain that makes whatever the prisoners make a piece of scum such as you go through seem as nothing in comparison. Keep in mind that Mycroft Holmes, the name might ring a bell, is watching your every step, should you feel the urge to behave inappropriately in the future."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Holmes," the man cried out.

Sherlock spit out at him and commented: "You disgust me."

After they emerged out of the building, John could no longer keep it inside: "So, what was all that about?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, seemingly determined not to let John on the nature behind of the events that transpired in the last few minutes.

"So was he the killer?" John continued pressing on.

"Your mind is so simple, John. It must be so easy being you," Sherlock answered, John only rolled his eyes at the insult: "Of course he's not our killer. Our suspects is a genius, Richards has sawdust instead of a brain in his head."

"Could you at least tell me why you decided to drag me here with you? It's not like you needed me and now you won't even tell me what's going on, " John could not suppress the irritation in his voice.

"I needed you to drive me here," was all the answer he got from Sherlock, but he dared to interpret it as 'I needed you to be here with me' inside his mind for some reason or another.

* * *

><p>"Hello?" Mary called out as she entered the flat of 221B Baker Street. She knew perfectly well that Sherlock would never yell out loud where in the flat she could find him of course, but courtesy suggested that you should at least let someone be aware of your presence before entering their home.<p>

She found Sherlock lying on the couch, at least half a dozen nicotine patches plastered over his forearms.

"Not economising on the nicotine, then," she commented dryly.

Sherlock didn't even bother to change his lying condition as he answered, somewhat annoyed: "I don't need a baby sitter, even if John and Mrs. Hudson insist otherwise."

"You might not need one, but I do," Mary smiled.

"What?" Sherlock sat up at studied Mary as she sat down next to him, visibly exhausted. "You haven't been feeling well, lately."

"No shit, Sherlock," she sighed.

"You and John are worried that the baby might be premature, although your doctor assures you that there's nothing to worry about...yet."

"Well, she wouldn't be the first doctor to be wrong, would she?"

"Can't you go to your family?"

"I don't have a family, remember?"

"Well, John's family then."

"Somehow I even feel safer with you of all people than with a drunk."

"Mrs. Hudson then?"

"Wouldn't want to bother the poor old lady. Besides, it's all a lot more fun with you. I have been kinda bored lately, I'm sure you can appreciate how infuriating that is."

Before Sherlock could make a comeback, a loud beep came from his coat, which was resting on the coat hanger.

"Well, if you want to stay, better make yourself useful and go grab the phone and read the message for me. Please."

"You do realise that I'm a heavily pregnant woman and by the rules of social conduct it should be you performing menial tasks for me. Not the other way around," Mary sighed.

Sherlock gave her a small smile: "That might work on John, but not on me, Mrs. Watson. The Phone. Now."

"Alright then." She made her way to the coat slowly and fished the phone out.

"It's from Greg."

"Whom?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Oh, him, what does he want?"

"You're off the case. It's all what it says."

"What?" Sherlock called out infuriated.

"Might have to do something with that violent incident at St. Lucas' school," Mary inferred.

"More likely, it has to do with my brother meddling in my affairs once again. Lestrade isn't his lap dog for nothing," Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"Still, I wonder, violence isn't like you," Mary mused: "not unless you're attacked first."

"I did kill a man in cold blood," Sherlock reminded her.

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"Magnussen attacked you first. And you did not kill him based on a violent urge; you made a calculated decision, everything in order to protect me, and John by extension. Fulfilling the vow you made to protect all three of us at our wedding."

Sherlock did not reply.

"But there was something about Magnussen that disgusted you, his tendency to prey on people who are different. So I suppose that there was something similar about this guy too. I just wonder what exactly it is that brings Sherlock Holmes to using his fists instead of his brain."

But Sherlock was no longer listening, he was half way out of the flat.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Scotland Yard, of course."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **As ever I don't own Sherlock.

**Chapter V**

Mary struggled to keep up with Sherlock as the detective made his way through the corridors of Scotland Yard. Finally he came to a halt as he found the object of his search. Detective Inspector Lestrade was in a deep conversation with one of his sergeants as he was approached or to be more precise descended upon by Sherlock.

"What the fuck?"growled the detective.

Mary cringed at the use of the swear word. She didn't remember her husband's best friend ever swearing. Something must have been terribly wrong for him to stoop to them now and even more so not to recognise that this reaction would hardly help his efforts towards getting back on the case.

"Come now, Sherlock, don't go making a scene," Lestrade spoke finally in his most fatherly tone as he laid a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

It didn't escape Mary's attention that all eyes were on Sherlock now. The detective seemed to gain some awareness of Donovan and the rest of the Yard staring at him as well as he tried to regain control once again. He did not however quite manage to drop the stiff posture and didn't seem to be fully in control of his body language, Mary noted. He shook Lestrade's hand of his shoulder and was about to speak as Lestrade interrupted him.

"Come with me," the inspector motioned to Sherlock and Mary and lead them both to one of the Yard's interrogation rooms. This conversation was to be resumed behind closed doors.

Before Lestrade even managed to close them however, Sherlock was already in his face: "So you are my brother's lap dog after all, Detective Inspector. Why else would you kick me off the case?"

Lestrade didn't even flinch at Sherlock's odd behaviour: "Sit down," he told him calmly.

"No," Sherlock crossed his arms in front of himself like a petulant child.

"Sit down!" Lestrade repeated, this time putting more force behind his voice.

Sherlock huffed but did indeed drop down to the chair next to the one which was already occupied by Mary.

"You've got only yourself to blame for being kicked off the case, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. His expression which was one of calm and genuine concern back out in the corridors of the Yard turned to what could have passed as anger mixed with disappointment.

"How?" Sherlock didn't seem to understand.

"Don't play dumb with me Sherlock," Lestrade got out the words through his teeth as he threw a sheet of paper in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's brows furrowed in genuine confusion. Mary's heart sank as she read the information and connected the dots. It all made sense, she supposed, it would explain why Sherlock had been acting out, why he even seemed to lose control of his emotions lately.

Lestrade waited for Sherlock's reaction with arms crossed in front of his chest.

Sherlock's eyes darted from the top to the bottom of the page.

"Well?" Lestrade finally interrupted the silence.

"This is...wrong," Sherlock answered lamely.

"You bet it is. We had a deal, Sherlock."

"That's not what I mean," a hint of frustration found its way to Sherlock's voice.

"What do you mean?" Mary tried to help him to find the way to whatever it was he had to say.

"Lestrade, you said we had a deal. And I have not broken in, not in a while. I'd be lying if I said there weren't times when I was tempted, but I haven't touched anything. Not in the last year."

The last year, Mary thought. The one year since he came back from the dead and was reunited with John, the months in which he had devoted himself to protect the three of them. Even if it meant that he could not allow himself to give in to his cravings.

"You have to believe me, Lestrade," there was a note of plea in his voice.

"If I didn't know you were such a good actor, Sherlock, I'd almost believe you."

"I don't have to act. I keep telling you, Lestrade, I AM CLEAN," Sherlock exploded.

It was about time to take the situation into her own hands, Mary decided.

"Greg, could you please give us a moment?" she pleaded with the inspector.

Lestrade sighed, but as most men he couldn't really resist Mary's pleas. As Lestrade left Mary stood up and sat in the chair across from Sherlock.

* * *

><p>"What's this, then? An interrogation?"Sherlock scowled.<p>

"I suppose," Mary conceded nonchalantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything.

"You haven't been taking drugs."

"That's not a question."

"No, it's not," Mary agreed and continued: "But your brother doesn't want you on this case very much. He'd even go as far as fabricating a toxicology report."

"You've connected the dots, I presume," Sherlock muttered, but his eyes didn't really meet Mary's.

"Although he has very strange ways to do it, Mycroft's aim seems to be protecting you more often than not."

"As if I needed protection from that arrogant sod," Sherlock once again gave the impression of a petulant child, who convinces you that they can make it without the auxiliary wheels on their bikes before proceeding to the imminent fall.

"We're beating around the bush here, Sherlock."

"You want me to be the one broaching the elephant in the room? I thought you were smart enough to have made the connection."

"I have," she confessed and felt a strange sensation in her stomach as all the implications finally dawned on her. She had the suspicion ever since she confirmed that the drugs weren't at play in this case, but up until now there wasn't enough time to fully comprehend it all.

Sherlock fiddled with his fingers nervously before he grabbed her hand perhaps with more force that would be advised for a man of his built while touching a pregnant woman.

"Look at me, Mary. A few months back you told me that you'd do anything in order for John not to find out about your past. This is the same, Mary. John can't ever find out about this."

"Why?" Mary wondered, her husband wouldn't be anything but understanding in Sherlock's case, unlike her secrets, this wasn't in any way Sherlock's fault.

Sherlock let go of her and put both of his hands under his chin.

"Because he would go on connecting dots which should never be connected. Trauma shapes the kind of people we are, that's how our dear John Watson thinks."

"I might not agree with it, but I won't go on telling your secrets, I swear."

"Good," Sherlock nodded and his face was suddenly overtaken by a faraway look. The one that his features took when he was trying to recall memories stowed away long ago, wandering the rooms of his mind palace, uncovering the tops of long closed boxes.

"I wasn't very popular among my classmates and peers, you can imagine," Sherlock started: "well that's not quite precise, I happened to be the favourite punching back for a few of them. Most of them were older than me as I skipped a few classes. And they loved picking on the smart ass scrawny little kid. Then, suddenly there was someone who seemed to care for me deeply, to understand me even. Instead of all the verbal abuse I usually got from adults there was someone who had only praise for me. Imagine how that felt. It started innocent enough, a teacher having a genius student over for extra lessons. It was not uncommon amongst teachers at the public school I went to, so it didn't ring an alarm bell. At the beginning he'd just be playing with me, not regular games, the experiments I loved so much. And I thought maybe that was what having friends was like. Then one day he asked for a hug. I did not like being touched even back then, but I complied. Here was someone who was ready to accept me for who I was, so what was one hug compared to that? What a silly little boy. Everyone with an ounce of a brain would have known that hugs would not be enough for him."

Mary tried not interrupting Sherlock during his story, but she felt complied to intervene at this moment: "How old were you, Sherlock?"

"Ten."

"You were so young, you couldn't have known."

"Oh, I beg to differ. I had a pretty complete understanding of human anatomy and had acquired enough encyclopaedic knowledge about sex at that point. At least on some level I knew what he was doing was wrong. But I liked having a friend too much; I could survive a bit of touching if I could keep him. But then he went over the line when I turned eleven. Apparently I was old enough to move on from touching. He didn't seem to count on me going to the school nurse with my injuries. But someone must have warned him because he disappeared from the school before the principal got wind of it. Mycroft has been trying very hard to find him and get rid of him. Unsuccessfully so far, I must say. Mummy had a bit of a breakdown when she found out about the whole thing."

A bile was rising up in Mary's throat. Sherlock had recounted the whole story with his usual cold demeanour, there wasn't even a slight quiver in his voice as if the hurt little boy was someone completely else long abandoned in the depths of his memories. But Mary knew that he wasn't quite alright. The way he dived so deep into this case, the nightmares, the attack on the teacher and his reaction to being kicked off the case. Then she felt a stab of pain in her heart as she contemplated that Sherlock's lack of wanting a partner might have been connected to these events.

"Oh, Sherlock," a few tears slid down her face as she took Sherlock's hands into hers. She wasn't surprised to find a slight tremor in them, even though Sherlock tried very hard suppressing it.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"This is exactly why I didn't want John to know. Making connections where there are none. The incident I just told you about has nothing to do with my lack of interest in sex. Just as your motherless childhood has nothing to do with you becoming a hitwoman. I'm not the man who I am today because of him."

"Of course you're not," Mary agreed, although she could not put her whole heart into it: "Why did you even tell me all this? It's unlike you."

"I know all your secrets, so it's only fair that you get to know mine," Sherlock smiled: "No, scratch that, I'm lying, I only told you so that you could give the short version to Lestrade."

"Why?" Mary frowned. Sherlock wouldn't give up this secret just to be put back on the case, would he? Only if...

"You think it's the same guy."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, Lestrade isn't any more likely to let you work this case if he knows all this than he is if he believes that you're on drugs."

"Oh, but he will."

"How come?"

"Because you'll convince him that I'm the only one who can catch this guy, Mrs. Watson."

"We're all just chess figures in a game you're playing to you, Sherlock, aren't we?"

Sherlock considered for a moment: "Maybe."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thank you for reading/reviewing/favouriting/alerting/whatever this story.

**Disclaimer: **I continue not to own Sherlock.

**Chapter VI**

After Mary left the room to get Lestrade, Sherlock's gaze lingered on his trembling fingers, he tried fighting the sensation, but the slight shaking of his hands wouldn't stop. He sighed and closed his eyes. Inside of his mind palace he was faced with a small boy, not much taller than Archie, the boy from John and Mary's wedding, albeit slightly chubbier, unruly dark curls falling into his blue-green eyes.

The boy stared at Sherlock with an expression of anticipation and a bit of something else that Sherlock could not quite place. Fear maybe?

"You," Sherlock started accusingly.

The boy covered slightly, but did not move from his spot.

"Why were you such a stupid little boy?" Sherlock wondered.

Tears trickled down the pale chubby face: "I'm not stupid!" he screamed as he ran off to hide in some corner of the mind palace.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock exclaimed.

It didn't take him a long time to find the child huddled in a corner of what looked like the shed that once belonged to Sherlock's childhood home, his face buried in Redbeard's fur. Some things never change, Sherlock supposed.

He kneeled down next to the boy and stroked Redbeard's fur.

"I'm sorry," he finally started: "I didn't mean to scare you."

The teary green-blue eyes looked up at him, but the boy didn't say a word.

"What's your name?" Sherlock continued in a much friendlier tone than before.

"Lock," the boy whispered.

"Tell me, Lock, what are you so scared of?"

But no word would escape young Sherlock's mouth.

"Will you show me?" the grown man offered.

Finally, the boy gave him a small barely noticeable nod. He let go of Redbeard and stood up, his small hand grabbing Sherlock's much bigger one. He led Sherlock through the corners of the mind palace, Redbeard followed in their footsteps, the ever loyal companion always ready to protect his little friend.

At last, the trio came to a halt in front of a room that felt strangely out of place in Sherlock's mind. He was an entirely chaotic person and you would even find chaos inside the tidiest places of his life. This room though was spotless and the smell of the detergents still lingered in the air. Suddenly a man of a considerable built appeared and a warm smile spread across his face.

"Oh, hello, Sher," he started and pointed to some things spread on the floor: "look at the new experiment I got for you."

The young boy let go of Sherlock's hand and both of his fists grabbed Sherlock's shirt instead as he buried his head in Sherlock's torso and a stream of fresh tears streaked down Sherlock's shirt.

"Sherlock?"the call came from far away.

"Sherlock!" this time a different voice, much stronger.

He opened his eyes to Mary shaking his shoulder, with Lestrade in tow, a concerned expression on his face.

"Sorry, thinking," Sherlock excused himself and as nonchalantly as possible he touched his cheek to wipe away the solitary tear.

"Um, okay," Lestrade began: "Look, Sherlock, your ass of a brother has some pretty strange ways of showing that he cares about you. But making me believe that you were using just because he thinks you should recover from your sickness before you take on any case was pretty low even from him. I do agree that you probably should get healthy first, but given the circumstances of the case..."

"I'm back on the case?"

"Yes," Lestrade agreed after a while as he lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave him a comforting fatherly squeeze: "Just don't overdo it, alright?"

An uncomfortable silence fell on the room as Sherlock finally managed to get some words of assent and Mary suggested they went back home before Sherlock's fever came back.

* * *

><p>"You lied to Lestrade," it wasn't an accusation, merely a statement.<p>

"Of course I bloody did."

"But why?"

"Oh, Sherlock, he'd never let you back on the case if he knew the truth."

"Yeah, I suppose, he's too professional to let someone directly involved get close to a case."

"Yes."

"There's more."

"Of course there is."

"I see."

"No, you don't."

"Nope."

"He cares about you, Sherlock. If he knew, he'd worry what this case could do to you."

"But you don't. Worry, I mean."

"Of course I do. I just think that of all the people out there I'm the last one who has any right to point out how much your poor decision making can hurt you and those around you...ow," Mary exclaimed and held a hand to her stomach.

"What's wrong?"

"I think...my water just broke," Mary managed to squeeze out between shallow breaths.

Sherlock's eyes widened as Mary grabbed his hand: "Sherlock, please, don't panic, this definitely isn't the right time for that."

Sherlock gulped and yelled for the closest Yard officer, knowing the average arrival time of the paramedics in London he commanded the officer to drive Mary and himself to the hospital in a squad car. The officer didn't protest much, not that Sherlock really gave him any chance.

* * *

><p>In the hospital waiting room Sherlock sat on the plastic chair with his knees drawn to his chest, arms draped around the knees.<p>

"You sure you don't want anything," John asked for the third time as he went on his way to get coffee, the sixth cup of the night.

"No, just like the last two times you asked, John," Sherlock answered annoyed.

"Alright, alright," John held up his hands in defeat, but a few minutes later he returned not only with his cup of coffee, but also with a bottle of still water, which he pretty much forced Sherlock to drink as he slumped down into the chair next to him.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked after a few minutes of silence as he observed the dark circles under his best friend's eyes and the complexion even a few shades paler than usual.

"With me? There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock shook his head without sparing John as much as a look: "your wife is the one giving birth right now, why aren't you worried about her?"

"I'm not worried about Marry."

Sherlock's eyes pierced through him at that.

"Yeah, alright, of course, I'm worried about her. But she's in good hands, with doctors you personally handpicked. There's not much I can do for her right now."

"You could. Why aren't you with her?" Sherlock retorted accusingly.

"Sherlock, we talked about this. You know what they say about doctors as patients. This would be even worse...if something were to go wrong, I don't think I could...this was a decision Mary and I made together."

Sherlock scoffed to show that he did not agree with this decision at all, but said no more on the topic.

"Is this about Moriarty?" John tried once again.

"Who?"

"Jim Moriarty, remember?"

"Morirarty's dead, John."

"How?" John was utterly confused.

"He blew his own brains out, remember?"

"And then he came back."

"Of course he didn't."

"But he did."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. No one can come back from that."

"But you did."

"Jumping off a building proves much easier to fake than a bullet to the brain. Especially when you have audience just a few inches from you."

"But...the video?"

"You'd be shocked what the likes of Lady Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes can achieve. That? A piece of cake with a bit of archive footage."

"But why?"

"Well, considering that Lady Smallwood was the reason why I started hunting down Magnussen in the first place, she hardly had any interest in me being involved in a suicide mission."

John's eyes widened as it finally dawned on him what exactly Mycroft's estimation of six months meant.

"...as for my brother...well, I'm sure he'd love to see me go through with the mission until the very end, but he seems to believe that on balance I have more utility for him and his people here..."

Before John could ask more, one of the doctors approached them. She seemed very tired and she was soaking in her own sweat.

"Is everything alright?" John asked unsure.

A small smile spread across her face: "There were some minor complications, but both your wife and son are doing fine right now. Would you like to see them?"

* * *

><p>About an hour later when Sherlock walked into Mary's hospital room, she was lying in her bed absolutely exhausted, but it was impossible not to see her happiness shining through. Even more so John who was holding a small bundle in his arms seemed happier than Sherlock had ever remembered him looking.<p>

"Hey," Sherlock greeted them all as he stood in the door unsure if he could interfere with the new family's happiness.

"Come here, you oaf," John solved his dilemma as he commanded him.

"Meet your godson, Sherlock," Mary told him as John put the small bundle into his hands.

"William John Watson," John introduced him.

Sherlock looked down at the still somewhat shrivelled face and took in the small fists and fingers and finally the sky-blue eyes. For a moment it seemed that their eyes locked and the infant was staring right through him. Of course Sherlock knew that the notion was ridiculous as a newborn's sight was hardly good enough to see as far. He tentatively offered the child one of his fingers and as the small hand encircled around it and squeezed he could not defend himself against the warmth that spread across his insides. Of course, he'd never confess to his, but as he was leaving the room, he could not hide the small smile that was tugging at the corner of his lips.

A few minutes later when John went to consult with the doctors, Mary was cradling her newborn son in her arms.

"That was uncle Sherlock, William. Your godfather. He's very very smart. And he'll do anything to protect you. But sometimes he's also really really stupid and makes idiotic decision. And he's also very very hurt and he doesn't see it. Can you help him, Will?" she whispered to the baby.

* * *

><p>As Sherlock was about to walk from the hospital, his phone buzzed with a new text from an unknown number.<p>

_William John Watson. What a beautiful baby boy. You better look out for him as I'm sure he'll be quite the looker one day._

Sherlock stared at the words as he tried once again to contain the trembling in his hands. He squeezed the phone with force in his hands, but the only damage it did was a slight pain in his palm.

He threw the phone against the wall and left the shattered pieces behind as he ignored the looks of the people around him.

He took in a few calming breaths as he fought down the rage at the man who even after all this years managed to get in the way of his happiness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Sherlock.

**A/N: **Thanks for reading as ever!

**Chapter VII**

Molly was about to leave the morgue as she caught a glimpse of a sudden movement in the corner of her eye. She armed herself with her umbrella before she proceeded to check out the intruder.

"Never would have picked you for a violent one," came the velvet voice of none other than Sherlock Holmes just a few feet from her.

Molly dropped the umbrella in surprise.

"You gave me a right fright, haven't I specifically asked you not to drop on me like this?"

"Probably. And I most likely wasn't listening. Anyway, I apologise for any harm my sudden appearance may have caused you and hope that it will prevent you from slaughtering me with an umbrella."

"Just make sure you don't surprise me like that again. Otherwise I can't promise you anything."

"I promise then."

"You're crossing your fingers behind your back, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Still, where did the violence come from?"

"You know me; I'm always full of surprises."

"More like full of frustration," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"Nothing."

"No more deducing me, Sherlock. You promised that."

"When did I promise that again? And why?"

Molly ignored Sherlock's comment and instead finally took in his appearance, hunched on the floor with his back against the wall. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him, there seemed something wrong with him just as during the whole Moriarty ordeal almost three years ago, except this seemed to be even worse. His clothes were ragged, hair messy and there were dark circles under his blood shot eyes as he furiously scratched at his forearm.

Oh, no, he didn't.

She slid down onto the floor next to him.

To her surprise it was Sherlock who spoke first.

"You look terrible."

A hollow laugh escaped Molly's lips.

"That's rich coming from you. When was the last time you actually looked into a mirror?"

His gaze stayed transfixed on his forearm.

"Well, I do feel like looking into one when I look at you right now."

Molly sighed.

"Well this case is hardly doing me any good."

Sherlock only answered her with an inexplicable huff as if he didn't consider Molly's explanation to be good enough. She scanned his demeanour cautiously and if she didn't know better she'd almost swear that Sherlock was of the opinion that Molly didn't quite know what she was talking about. Even though she was the one who had to perform the autopsy and post mortem examination of all the boys. She didn't press Sherlock to elaborate on his opinion of the matter. If there was something that he wanted to tell her, he would have done so. It would probably take a while and he'd do it in some of his strange ways, but he would be the one to come forward with the initiative. This was the way their unlikely friendship came to work in the past few months.

The relentless scratching wouldn't stop until Molly grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"You didn't go and do something stupid, did you?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head.

"Mind if I look?"

There seemed to be a glimmer of hurt that found its way onto Sherlock face before he nodded his approval. Molly almost felt bad, yet she knew that this wouldn't be the first time he had lied to his friends about this matter. She could almost feel her heart in her throat as she pulled up both of Sherlock's sleeves. She couldn't detect any recent track marks. Unless her friend had found a new creative way to shoot up, it seemed that his blood shot eyes were the result of one too many a sleepless night. And she wanted to believe his words, so it was unlikely that he had taken anything.

"But you wanted to...want to?" she corrected herself in the middle of the sentence.

As Sherlock gave a barely visible nod in confirmation, Molly shuddered.

"But you came to me for help."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, of course not," Mary bit her lower lip in frustration.

Just great, he comes to her for help and she drives him away.

"I'm flattered that you'd come to me, really...and surprised."

"Why...isn't this what friends do?"

A warmth crept into Molly's heart. Yet there was something adorable and at the same time very sad about the unsure tone in Sherlock's voice.

"Yes, it is. It's just that I'd expect you to go to John with this first. I'd only expect you to come to me if you were looking for ways to find drugs not ways to stay away from them. Seeing as I have easier access to them than most. You're not, are you?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head: "If I wanted to steal drugs, I wouldn't bother you with that, you don't have to worry."

"Yeah, that doesn't worry me at all," Molly muttered under her breath, unsure if Sherlock was able to detect the sarcasm in her voice.

"So why me?"

"I didn't want to trouble Mary and John. They've got enough trouble on their hands as it is."

"And you'd know that, of course."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion and Molly could feel his green blue eyes scanning her, deducing: "...oh, I see, you've visited yesterday, wanted to get your mind off the last one."

"True, but I also felt like seeing my godson."

"They named you godmother."

"Which you would have known if you bothered to visit sometimes. You know I'm sure little Will would like to get to know his godfather as well."

"He's three weeks old, he can hardly recognise his own mother, yet alone his godfather," Sherlock answered harshly.

"You know what I mean. Mary and John are worried about you, Sherlock. They miss you."

Sherlock's only answer was silence.

"Sherlock...just promise you will give them a visit soon."

"I...can't."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

"You made a vow Sherlock."

"I know."

"So why?"

"I said it's complicated, so just leave it, Molly...please."

Molly knowing how much effort on his part it took to utter that last word decided to let the matter go. Furthermore she managed to detect some kind of hidden determination in Sherlock's words when he spoke about the vow as if he were keeping it by staying away from the Watson family.

"Well, get up then," she commanded.

"Are we going somewhere?" Sherlock looked up at her confusion.

"Yes, I know the right place you need just now."

A doubtful expression crossed Sherlock's face; he was thinking that the place she'd drag him to would hardly be the appropriate one for him. But Molly knew that the detective was in some ways far worse at deducing her than she was at knowing him.

* * *

><p>Molly tried hiding her triumphal smile at Sherlock's somewhat surprised expression as they got out of the car in front of the Dogs and Cats Home.<p>

"What are we doing here?" he wondered.

"You'll see," she reassured him as he precariously followed her into the building.

Jenny, the elderly lady at the front desk smiled at the duo: "Oh, hello, Molly, here with your new boyfriend? He's quite a catch this one."

"Oh...erm...I...Sherlock's just a friend," Molly finally squeezed out as both her and Jenny's face turned red, Sherlock either stayed oblivious to their embarrassment or chose to ignore it.

"Molly...I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"Don't worry, Sherlock. It will be fine."

"Here to see Archer?" Jenny asked finally, trying to get over the somewhat humiliating start of this visit.

"Oh, yes!" Molly answered eagerly.

Archer turned out to be an elderly golden retriever, which calmed Sherlock somewhat. There was a bit familiarity to him compared to Redbeard, but the dog was different enough from his boyhood friend not to reopen old wounds.

Sherlock petted Archer carefully before burrowing his head in the dog's fur.

"Do you come here often?" he wondered.

"Hmm. I wanted to adopt Archer, but it's not like I can provide him with the best care with my job and all. But he's really old, so no one else will take him. I came to an agreement with the home, I regularly donate to them to help run things and Archer can stay."

Molly couldn't stop the urge to explain herself even though this was Sherlock and he had probably deduced everything by now.

"It's just...I spend so much time with dead people...and the when I'm with people who are actually alive, they don't understand...dogs don't ask questions."

"I see."

* * *

><p>Not sure about how this came out, feels kinda OOC.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock.

**A/N:** Thanks for reading as ever!

**Chapter VIII**

Detective Inspector Lestrade sighed as he looked around the crime scene. Yet another poor innocent boy turned victim by their serial killer. Greg could barely contain his frustration. Yet another body and he still felt they were no closer to catching the killer than when the first boy was discovered. The connection that Sherlock had made between the victims was far from a victory. Plus, the state of the young detective while working on this case was a story of its own.

Currently Sherlock was crouching down next to the victim as he spouted out his deductions with the usual speed, but there was no trace of the excitement which tended to accompany them on other cases. The young detective was looking far worse for wear than Greg could ever remember him. And that was saying something, considering that the detective inspector had seen him at his worst in a drug induced state, as a recovering junkie or after he almost died after he was shot a few months back. Another thing that bothered him was that Sherlock had once again shown up at the crime scene without John's company. True, the doctor and his wife probably currently had their hands full with the baby, but if his talk with John when they shared a pint in order to celebrate William Watson's birth suggested anything, the sudden distance between Sherlock and the Watsons was far more Sherlock's doing than the new additions to the family. Greg was half tempted to subject 221B to another of his drugs busts, just to make sure that Sherlock had not once again decided to pick up his old habit. The person who discouraged him from staging one was none other than Molly Hooper.

By some strange workings of the universe, Molly seemed to be the one person who could find her way to Sherlock at the moment. In some ways, he'd even dare to say that she had somewhat replaced John in some of his old duties. Be it as it were, Molly seemed to be convinced that whatever it was that had gotten into the detective; it had nothing to do with drugs. She also made a good point saying that what Sherlock needed now was people whom he could trust and he would repay them by trusting them as well. To be trusted and depended upon as a friend by Sherlock Holmes was a feat to achieve and Greg had no reason to take any kind of action that would endanger the fragile relationship Greg felt he had to rebuild after he was not able to believe in Sherlock the last time around with Moriarty.

Sherlock for one was trying to force down the bile that had been forming in his throat ever since he first set his eyes upon the latest victim. The dark curls, icy blue eyes, skin the palest shade of white. There was no mistaking the similarity between the little boy and his younger self. Threatening baby William was not good enough for the evil bastard; he had to find other ways of taunting him.

As he crouched down to the body, he spouted out a series of deductions to a very distracted Lestrade.

He shot him an angry glare: "What's the point of calling me in if you're just going to ignore whatever I have to say?"

Lestrade shook his head and mumbled and apology: "Anything important?"

"Not really," Sherlock could not hide the disappointment in his voice as he noticed that the boy was clutching something in one of his hands.

"What's this then?"

"Some kind of message from the killer, we assume. I told the boys to wait for getting it until you arrive."

But Sherlock wasn't listening to Lestrade as he was already recovering a folded sheet of paper and some kind of leaf from the boy's hand.

"Quercus robur."

"What?"

"English oak...the leaf," Sherlock muttered as he unfolded the piece of paper.

"What is it?"

"A message."

"A message for whom?"

"Me," was the barely audible response from Sherlock as he showed the paper, a recent article about Sherlock's involvement with the case, into Lestrade's hands.

_Genius detective struggles to save our children_

"Why would he send you a message?"

But Sherlock was already halfway gone.

"Sherlock, explain!" Lestrade called after him.

Sherlock turned on his feet and replied: "I will...there's something I need to get first."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!" his mother could not stifle her surprise when she found her son standing at their front door.<p>

It was highly unusual for him to pay a visit unless his brother dragged him along. Her boy came in without as much as a hello.

"Oh dear God, you look terrible."

"Where's dad?"

"In the living room."

Sherlock tried making his way there, but his mother grabbed him by his coat.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You're working on this case with the dead boys, aren't you? I don't think you should...after what happened...," she trailed off.

Sherlock could not bear looking into her tear stained face as he whispered: "Mother, Mycroft's already tried to mother me in this...so please, just leave me alone."

The words escaped his mouth with more force than intended, but if it made his mother stay away, it was well worth it.

He found his father engrossed in a book.

"Dad," he addressed him.

"Son," he answered no surprise visible in his face.

"Do you still have it?"

"Have what?"

"The file."

"What file?"

"The one from when I was...young."

"I feared that was why you came."

Sherlock kept silent.

"So you think this is him?"

Sherlock played with the leaf in his hand: "I'm certain it's him."

* * *

><p>"Go away, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted as he heard someone enter his flat.<p>

A much younger voice responded from the door: "I'm not Mrs. Hudson and I could use your assistance."

"Go away, Mary!" was the only answer she got as she made her way to the kitchen carrying the baby.

"You wouldn't believe how much weight he has gained since we left the hospital. I swear he's heavier by the day. As you'd know if you bothered to find out how your own godson was doing."

There was no answer whatsoever from Sherlock.

"So, what's this about, Sherlock?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh come on, you know it very well. You've been avoiding all three of us since William was born. It can't be that you think that William will somehow replace you, because we made it very clear that he would not and I saw your face when you held him in your arms. You love him and don't even try to deny it. I understand that you don't want John in on that case, because you don't want him to find out... But that's no reason for not coming round for a cuppa, is it? So what's the matter?"

"Nothing, " Sherlock persisted.

"You know I can tell when you're fibbing, Sherlock."

When she got no reaction from Sherlock she made her way back to the living room to try to discover the root of her friend's behaviour. Immediately upon arrival she was drawn to the materials from Sherlock's investigation. Her attention was drawn to a new series of photos, apparently from the latest murder. The first picture was of a sheet of paper torn from the newspaper, a piece about the case involving Sherlock. The next one was of a little boy, hauntingly similar to...

"Oh my God...it's him," she whispered.

* * *

><p>Hi, there, speaking to you, people reading this. You know, I'd love to hear what you think about this story, right? :)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Still alive! Sorry it took so long.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I don't even own the roof above my own head, yet alone Sherlock.

**Chapter IX**

"Motherhood has made you slow," Sherlock made a snarky comment as he finally bothered to stand up from the couch. As Mary's gaze was still transfixed on the photograph of the curly haired boy, Sherlock managed to grab little William before she fully realized what he was doing.  
>"Careful," the motherly instinct made her shriek. However her worries proved to be completely groundless as Sherlock was holding the infant in the most perfect manner.<br>"You're full of surprises lately, Sherlock," she commented with a ghost of a smile passing through her features.  
>Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Folding serviettes isn't the only thing you can learn from Youtube, you know. Anyway as I mentioned, you've become terribly slow, Mrs. Watson. I already told you it was the same guy, who…," Sherlock's voice trailed.<br>"Told me when?"  
>"Back at the Yard?"<br>"Oh, you mean right before I gave birth."  
>"As far as I'm aware child birth has no influence on memory whatsoever."<br>"Oh, really? Well, how about you try it first and then tell me about it?"  
>Sherlock's brows furrowed in confusion: "Seeing as that is scientifically impossible, I don't know how I could."<br>Mary shook her head: "Whatever. Anyway, I recall now. You told me you thought it was the same guy."  
>"And you didn't believe me?" Sherlock sat down on the sofa holding William in his arms, offering the infant's tiny hand one of his fingers, which the boy eagerly accepted.<br>"I wasn't sure. It wasn't like you were at your best. Hell you still don't look all that well."  
>Sherlock huffed as Mary sat down next to him onto the couch.<br>"How much time do we have?" Sherlock inquired, his eyes never leaving William in his arms.  
>"Until what?" Mary pretended to be confused.<br>"Until John comes barging in here and starts shouting. Where is he anyway?"  
>Mary crossed her arms in front of her chest: "I sent him to bring some stuff to Mrs. Hudson."<br>"I see," Sherlock murmured.  
>"See what?"<br>"You sent him to Mrs. Hudson in the vain hope that I would spill the beans, as they say, to you without him being present."  
>"Perhaps," Mary confessed and continued: "How did you know John was here anyway?"<br>Sherlock's eyes finally turned to Mary: "Easy. I heard the car."  
>"Could have been me driving the car," Mary protesed.<br>"No, it couldn't," Sherlock disagreed: "Nobody but John parks like that."

* * *

><p>When Sherlock turned to face her, Mary finally had the chance to take in his appearance. She made a quick scan of his form and was sorry to conclude that since the last time she had lied her eyes on him, he didn't change for the better. If anything, he looked even a bit worse for wear, if that were at all possible. The circles under his eyes turned a few shades darker, he seemed to have lost a few pounds and there was a trickle of sweat running down his face. Before she managed to form the question that was on her lips, she was interrupted by the sound of John's shoes running up the stairs.<br>"Last chance to spill the beans before John starts asking questions, Sherlock," Mary urged him.  
>The young detective gave no indication that he had even heard her words as he stood up from his place on the couch with William still in his arms and faced the opened the door and walked into 221B his face the perfect picture of composure."Sherlock," he adressed his best friend as if nothing had happened during the last few weeks. As if they only had seen each other yesterday and this wasn't a forced reunion after a certain party was being reclusive in the relationship and was avoiding the other."John," Sherlock acknowledged the other man.<br>"Haven't heard from you for a while, mate," John started, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm.  
>"Oh, yeah?" Sherlock wondered nonchalantly: "I've been keeping busy, time flies by so fast..."<br>John growled: "Sherlock, Mary and I have combined for about 325 calls and 542 messages to you over the last four weeks."  
>"Oh, you have?" Sherlock eyes narrowed: "You know, I haven't seen my phone for a while."<br>His brows furrowed in confusion and finally he went to the kitchen and opened the fridge with one hand, the other holding onto the infant. Amongst all the various objects he finally managed to fish out the smartphone: "Oh, there you are!"  
>John was practically seething now, so before his anger could get the better of him, Mary decided to step in.<br>"How exactly were you keeping in touch with the world?" she wondered.

"I wasn't," Sherlock shrugged her off.

Mary and John exchanged a confused look.

"What?" John managed to get out.

"John has parenthood rendered you absolutely dim? It means exactly what I said, I haven't been in touch with anyone."

"What about Lestrade though? How did you get news from him?" Mary asked disregarding Sherlock's rude comment on her husband's address, after all his rudeness was just a part of his defense mechanism.

"There was nothing new I could learn from him anyway. He tried coming around a few times though."

"I still don't understand," John tried.

"Oh, have you put that on a T-shirt yet?" Sherlock mused.

Once again Mary and John exchanged quizzical looks. Sherlock was acting rather strangely and neither of them liked the first explanation of his behaviour that sprang to their minds.

"Sherlock, I hope you haven't done something stupid," Mary started worry showing on her face.

John's expression however was one of fury rather than worry.

"Sherlock," he growled:"I swear to God, if you're holding my child in your hand while you're high..."  
>Sherlock walked towards John until his face was almost in John's. His face was a mask of composure, but his voice betrayed the anger and the hurt: "I would never...you have absolutely no idea how wrong you are, John," he finished lamely after breathing in and out and calming somewhat.<br>"Oh yeah?" John inquired: "Then you won't mind me looking around. For example: what do we have here?" he pointed at the old cardboard box on the table.  
>"No!" Sherlock cried as John made a move to open the box. He tried to stop John as best as he could while still carefully holding onto William. The result was that the box came crashing down to the floor with its contents flying out of it. To John's surprise there were no drugs to be found, only papers which looked like police and medical records of some kind and a few old photographs. Before Sherlock could stop him, John made a grab for the photograph of the little curly haired boy.<br>For the longest while none of the three adults, Mary sitting on the sofa, John hodling the photograph he had picked up and Sherlock with William in his arms, made any sound.  
>Finally Sherlock growled: "Get out, John!"<br>"Not before you explain yourself," John protested his voice climbing up a few 's features which were those of content before quickly hardened at the loud sound of voices. Before the infant could fully explode into a crying session, Sherlock stood up and grabbed a se of keys from the nearest table, which he used as a makeshift rattle. The little boy's features softened at the sound of the keys jingling.  
>Finally Sherlock spoke: "You should go, this place isn't really sanitary for an infant."<br>John huffed: "Bollocks."  
>"John is right," Mary agreed with her husband: "If there really were some danger to William you would have mentioned it the minute we walked in. But we ought to go if we don't want to miss Will's doctor's apointment. Could you please carry William to the car?"<br>She turned to John expectantly and added: "I'll be right behind you."  
>"Yeah," John managed to get out and finally moved from his frozen position and started walking towards Sherlock, his hands unconciously still clutching the photograph. As Sherlock passed the infant to his best friend he made a point of not meeting John's gaze.<br>"Sherlock...," John started.  
>"You should go, John."<p>

John made no further comment as he left 221B Baker Street. Mary gave Sherlock one last sad smile as she whispered: "You can't go on like this, Sherlock."


End file.
